Halflings
by Defeat Tastes Like Tomatoes
Summary: Time Travel Fic: Christabelle Carpentier is nearly murdered. This somehow results in her ending up back in the 19th century, sharing the opera house with a ghost. And a very charming cello player. And possibly a- wait. What's a hallower?
1. Chapter 1

I have posted a common, slightly-cheesy time-travel fic. Okay, so shoot me. Or rather, don't. (That feels like a quote from somewhere, but I'm not sure from where... It might be Artemis Fowl.)

Anyway, unlike many others of this kind, this one has a plot! Not that you can tell yet, or maybe you can, but it does! I'm not good at just straight ridiculousness.

I don't own Phantom of the Opera.

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><p>Christabelle got her makeup done quickly, despite the incredible amount, and looked herself in the mirror.<p>

She looked ridiculous. But of course she looked ridiculous, she was playing Mrs. Potts. If she didn't look stupid, she'd be dressed wrong.

Still, even though this was only a dress rehearsal, Chris wasn't excited about appearing on stage as a teapot. Brandon would never see her as anything more than a giant, nerdy teapot until they graduated college and went their separate ways.

And she _really_ wanted the super hot, super smart theater major to see her as more than that. Her obsession for Brandon, who was playing the Beast, was rivaled only by her obsession for her music. It had even managed to beat her obsessions for some of her favorite musicals, which was saying something.

"Ready?" Mel asked. Her roommate and best friend was playing Belle, and was extremely excited about it because she got to play opposite Brandon. The music major thought it was weird that both she and her roommate were crushing on the same guy. Wicked, anyone?

But Chris knew that it wouldn't work like that. For one thing, neither one of them was a Galinda type. Mel was beautiful, but if she were to be compared to a musical character, Chris would compare her to Christine, from the Phantom of the Opera.

Chris herself was always compared to the Little Mermaid, because she was short, had blue eyes and flaming red hair that always managed to look wavy and tousled, like she'd been singing on a rock on a windy day in the middle of the ocean.

Neither one of them had green skin or black hair, anyway.

"Yeah, I guess so," Chris said. Mel nodded and dragged her out while they waited back stage for the time when they had to go on stage. Mel, of course had to go out before Chris, and as soon as Brandon had been changed from a Prince to a Beast, Mel went on and got accosted by Gaston.

Brandon stopped and stood next to her. "Well, Melanie is really talented, isn't she?" he asked.

Chris felt her face heat, but she kept her wits. It helped that she didn't consider herself having even half a chance with him. And he was much easier to talk to in his Beast costume. "Please don't call her that. We all call her Mel." We being the Chris and the two girls who were attached to them by their shared bathroom.

"Mel," he said, as if testing out the sound of it on his tongue. His tone gave the distinct impression that he liked Melanie better.

"Well, it's not Maria, but _I _like it," Chris murmured.

"Maria?" Brandon asked, confused.

"You know. West SideStory." She sang a few bars, though her version was about an octave higher than Tony's. "All the beautiful sounds of the world in a single word, Maria, Maria."

"No singing backstage!" the director, Mr. Higgins, hissed. He was affectionately known as Higgles behind his back.

"Sorry Higgles," Chris whispered. Okay, maybe not so much behind his back.

"You're pretty good too, Chris," Brandon said, as if in an afterthought.

"Would I get to sing the most important song in this play if I wasn't?" she asked him. Though her costume was terrible, Chris just _loved_ playing Mrs. Potts. She was a really kick ass character.

He smiled, Chris's heart flipped. "Good point. "

Chris smiled back. Maybe she _did_ stand snowballs chance in hell with this man!

And that's when it all went wrong.

There was a crash on stage and the fire curtain came crashing down. "Mel!" Chris yelled, and came instantly running out onstage. She heard heavy

"Chris! Brandon!" Mel shouted running over to them, apparently unharmed. "What's going on?"

"You tell us," Chris said, looking around. She had a sinking feeling...

"Are you okay?" Brandon said, taking Mel's hands and looking her over. Mel nodded, slightly dazed.

"I don't know. I don't know what happened. The fire curtain! It just fell!"

Chris said. "It's the Opera Ghost."

"Shut up, Chris," Mel said, glaring at her. "Someone could have been hurt!"

"Someone might still be," Brandon said, looking past the girls.

Chris turned around but didn't see anything. "What?"

"What if there's a fire in the auditorium?" Brandon asked.

"The fire alarm would be going off," Chris replied. She started to walk away. There was a good chance that _she _had caused the accident, even if it wasn't intentional.

Though a falling fire curtain didn't exactly fit with her previous mishaps…

"Practice is over for today, guys!" shouted a shaken Higgles. "Come back tomorrow."

Chris and Mel were both getting out of their costumes when they heard the bang. Chris, who changed much faster than Mel, despite the costume being more complex, ran outside. "What the hell?" That sounded like a gunshot.

Chris was no sooner outside in the lobby of the arts center when she was grabbed by someone. All she knew about him was that he was large, until she felt the barrel of a gun at her temple. Okay, so he was large and had a gun.

"I'm sorry dear," a voice murmured in her ear. "It looks like I've finally found you." He smelled of rich earth and animal musk. Odd, but extremely familiar. Chris didn't have time to place it. "Good bye," he said, and fired.

There was a flash of light and a burst of warmth throughout her veins and the man behind her disappeared. Chris fell forward on her hands and knees. _That_ was exactly like her previous mishaps. She hoped the guy who'd tired to kill her was blasted into smithereens, and damned be the consequences! He'd just tried to kill her!

She looked around and realized she wasn't in the lobby of the performing arts center anymore. It looked like she was in the lobby of the… Opera Populaire?


	2. Chapter 2

So I didn't edit this much. There's bound to be plenty of mistakes, sorry about that.

Oh, and everything is going to seem very, very convienient (like her clothes and her language skills), but I have reasons for that! You're just not allowed to know them yet.

Erik: It's because she does't actually have them.

Erik you lying bastard!

Erik: *shrug* Believe what you want to believe.

I do not own the Phantom of the Opera

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><p>Belatedly, Chris realized that she was not wearing her jeans and t-shirt. She was dressed in a tan challis traveling dress with brown tape edging. It was from the 1870's.<p>

Was she really in the 1870's? Chris looked outside. There was no mistaking it, the fashions, the horses, the buildings. She was. "Oh, goodness…" Chris took a deep breath. It could be worse. Of all the time periods to be stuck in, this was the best one. Her father, Klaus Carpentier, was a history teacher who specialized in the late 19th century. She knew enough about the time period so that she, hopefully, wouldn't screw it up.

The French was fine too. Her father had emigrated from France just after she was born. It was her first language.

The doors burst open and two important people, trailed by a few servants, rushed in. From the servants chatter, Chris was able to identify them. She watched wide-eyed as the Comte de Chagny and his brother, Raoul, strode across the lobby asking where the new managers were.

The servants in the lobby asked them to wait, they where sure the new managers, along with the old, would be along in a moment. The two nobles waited.

Raoul noticed her. "Hello? I don't believe we've met," he said, coming up to her and taking her hand. Chris kept the disgusted look from her face as he kissed it. Sure, he was handsome, but he smelled bad. Too flowery, not male enough for her.

"My name is Christabelle Carpentier, monsieur. I have come to…" Chris paused for barely a second, realizing she had no reason to be here. "I seek a job here, with the Opera Populaire." Raoul raised his eyebrows, and, belatedly Chris realized that the well-to-do woman she was pretending to be wouldn't need a job. She'd have her parents or her husband to support her. "My house in the country recently burned down, and my father is having trouble rebuilding it. I have come here to get out of his way while he does. I feel I must support myself until it is repaired." Which still didn't make any sense, but Raoul wouldn't question it.

"I see. What sort of job were you looking for?" Raoul asked her. Chris wondered why he was talking to her, but she answered him.

"I was hoping to play in the orchestra pit," Chris replied.

"My dear, only men may play in the orchestra pit," Raoul said, as if that settled the matter.

"That is only because they haven't heard me play, yet," Chris said. Now that she had come up with that, she wanted to do it. She never got to be in the pit for any performance and Chris wanted to see what it was like.

Raoul was holding back a chuckle. "What do you play?" he asked, seemingly to distract himself.

"Piano, violin, French horn, and cello," Chris replied. "I'd try out on the cello, though." If she wanted to be a music teacher, she'd have to learn to play everything eventually, but those were the ones she was good at.

The Vicomte looked genuinely impressed. "Well, Mlle Carpentier, I will try my hardest to get M. Reyer to hear your audition."

Chris's eyes widened. "You would really do that?" Why was he doing that?

Raoul smiled. "Yes, I would."

"Raoul, we must go," called Comte Philippe.

"Yes, brother," Raoul called to the Comte and started off. But he called behind him. "Mlle. Carpentier, you are welcome to watch the rehearsal."

Chris smiled, "Thank you, monsieur," she replied, heading off toward where she supposed the entrance to the stage was. She did not dare sit on one of the beautiful red seats, but instead stood in the back, watching as the new managers were introduced. Then the new managers introduced their new patron. "Monsieur le Comte Phillppe de Chagny."

The count walked forward. "My family and I are honored to support all the arts," he said. "Especially the world renowned Opera Populaire." Everyone applauded and the count and viscount were introduced to Carlotta and Piangi. They politely excused themselves, after Raoul whispered to the new managers for a moment and gestured toward Chris, and rehearsal started once more. Chris stood where she was and beamed as she watched their rehearsal. They were all really very good. She loved it.

But Chris's enjoyment slipped when Carlotta had a fit. Hoping to please her, the managers groveled, convincing her to sing the aria in act three for them.

Carlotta's voice was not as terrible as many made it out to be. She managed to hit all the right notes, and Chris could tell she had sung beautifully once. Now, she was merely adequate, her voice strained and rough.

And then a curtain came crashing down on top of her! As everyone ran about arguing, Chris ran forward, peering into the ropes and walkways that were above the stage, hoping to get a glimpse of the famous Phantom.

She thought she caught a glimpse of black cloak when a sweet voice distracted her. Christine was singing now, and she was very, very good. There was no mistaking her superiority to Carlotta.

Even so, Chris sensed she was holding back for some reason, that she wasn't giving it her all. When they reached the end of the aria, Christine failed to hit the high note at the end, instead going about a third below that. Chris pursed her lips, but said nothing.

M. Reyer admonished her, and then rehearsal was over, seeing as no one wanted to rehearse with the Phantom of the Opera hanging over their heads. The managers walked over and spoke to M. Reyer, who frowned and argued with them for a moment before sighing and standing up. "Mlle. Carpentier?" he asked.

Chris stepped forward. "Here sir."

"You wish to audition to be in the orchestra pit?" Several people laughed at that.

Chris did not waver. "Yes sir."

"Do you have your own instrument?" M. Reyer asked.

Chris felt the air seep out of her lungs. She hadn't thought of that. "Not yet sir." There was more laughter from on stage. Chris noticed Christine and Meg looking at her with interest.

"Le Monte," said M. Reyer to a man in the orchestra pit. "Will you let Mlle Carpentier borrow your instrument so she can give us an audition?"

"Here? In front of everyone?" Chris asked, but then frowned as M. Reyer gave her a look and there was more laughter from those on stage. "Yes sir," she said.

"I will sir," said Le Monte. Then there were noises, presumably Le Monte coming up from the orchestra pit onto the stage. Chris herself was led around back and then onto the stage.

Le Monte, a young man only a few years older than her, and very cute, handed her his cello and winked. "Luck to you, lass," he said in heavily accented French before walking away to watch.

Chris was given a chair and everyone fell silent as they waited for her to play. She sat down and had a near panic attack as she realized she had no music, and nothing prepared. She tried to think of something she had memorized, but nothing came to mind.

Very well, she thought. She'd just make it up.

She sat for a moment, just breathing, and then she started to play.

Chris had done this many times before, just played. She knew how to do it. She knew how to remember what she had played a second before and tie into what she was playing now, so it sounded like she planned it.

But, of course she hadn't done this in front of anyone, until now, when the entire company of one of the most famous opera houses in the world was listening. Erik might even be listening, she didn't know. And she forced herself not to care. Whatever happened would happen.

After what seemed like both hours and seconds later, the song decided it wanted to come to an end. Chris obliged and stopped playing. The last note echoed, of course. This was an opera house, so it had really good acoustics.

Chris stood and bowed. There was a half-hearted applause. She looked around and saw some people clapping like mad, and this group included Christine, Meg, and Le Monte. Some people were clapping politely, like Mme. Giry, and Chris couldn't tell if they liked it or not. Many people were just standing there, doing nothing except glaring at her.

M. Reyer was in the second group. "That was... interesting. What is it called?" he asked.

Chris swallowed, "I don't know," Chris said. She contemplated saying that she had just made it up, but decided against it.

M. Reyer nodded and thought for a moment. "Well, you played it adequately, at least. Welcome to the Opera Populaire," he said, though he didn't sound very welcoming.

Chris grinned and curtsied. "Thank you monsieur."

"I expect you to get your own instrument by the end of the week," M. Reyer said. "Or else your stay with us will only be that long. Do not worry about being a part of tonight's gala. You did not rehearse with us, and so you have the night off tonight."

Chris's grin slipped off her face. The end of the week? How was she supposed to get a cello by the end of the week? It was impossible! She had no money! "Yes sir," she said rather meekly.

"You're excused," M. Reyer said. "All of you." The rest of the company started to proceed off stage, and Chris followed, sour and wondering how on earth she was going to procure a cello by the deadline.

She was intercepted while still on stage. "Lass?" a familiar voice with an equally familiar accent asked her. "May I have my cello back now?"

Chris blinked and realized she was still carrying Le Monte's instrument. "Oui," she said, and handed it to him. "I am called Christabelle Carpentier."

Le Monte nodded. "Of course you are."

A strange reply. "Excuse me? Do you not believe me?"

Le Monte's eyes twinkled. "Oh, of course I believe you. I am called Siarl Le Monte." Siarl, pronounced Sharl, Chris knew to be a from of Charles. A French name, which was odd because he wasn't French. His accent told her that much. She guessed he was Irish.

"Of course you are," Chris repeated.

Le Monte laughed. "Well, I must be off. Very nice to meet you Mlle Carpentier."

"To you as well," Chris said as he walked off in one direction and she walked off in another.

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><p>OMG! I just LOVE Le Monte. He is so awesome. He wasn't even in my original plans for this fic. He just popped in there as my fingers were typing, completely unplanned and unintended. He sneaked through into my story, mischievous-like and all. Which fits completely with his character.<p>

And if you're wondering what he looks like, he looks like Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

I should be angry with him for screwing up my story by slipping into it, but he's just so awesome I can't be mad at him.

Le Monte: You know you love me.

Don't get your hopes up. Screw up my plot too much, and I'll let Erik kill you.

Erik: She's just kidding. Go ahead and screw it up all you like...

Erik, stop being so evil!

Le Monte: Don't worry, lass, I won't let that big oaf harm me.

Erik isn't a big oaf! Seriously. If you had paid attention to my story before you decided to be a part of it, you might have realized that!

Le Monte: But I'm just so perfect for it, it doesn't matter.

Erik: Be quiet or I will silence you forever.

Le Monte: You're just jealous.

*giggle* *sigh* I love you guys.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry I didn't get this up when I should have. I have no excuse. Also, thank you to Celestialdome for giving me a tranquilizer gun! I will treasure it always. *grins evilly and brandishes the gun, laughs as everyone runs for cover* That's what I thought.

I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

><p>Flustered by Le Monte's strange behavior (and by his charming smile) Chris wasn't paying attention as she walked off stage, and so she smacked right into someone. Chris's head snapped up. "Oh my goodness! I'm so, so sorry," she said, feeling herself turn beet red.<p>

She turned redder as she realized that she had bumped into Christine Daae! She continued to fumble with a proper apology, when she heard giggling. She turned to see Meg fighting laughter and losing.

"Red clashes horribly with pink," she said between giggles. At first Chris was confused, but then she remembered she was blushing.

Chris frowned, blush receding. "Hey I-"

"It's perfectly fine," Christine interrupted quickly. Chris looked between the two, and felt sheepish. They had liked her performance. She owed them her gratitude.

"Thank you for supporting me," she said, finally. "I'm Chris."

Christine and Meg both shrugged off her thanks, but looked at each other when she said her name. "My name is Christine," the brunette said.

Meg smiled. "This could get confusing, I think. I'm Meg,"

Chris smiled. "It's nice to meet you both. As for the similarities, Christine, I expect we'll get used to it."

Christine nodded and they stood there in awkward silence. Finally Meg spoke. "What possessed you to try out for the orchestra? It's only supposed to be for men."

"Anything can change," Chris said, adopting a very stubborn look. "My house in the country was burned down. While my father rebuilds it, I'm going to live in the city and support myself."

"Why didn't you try out for the chorus, or the ballet?" Christine asked. "Your reputation would be in less danger."

Chris frowned. "I don't give a tinker's dam about my reputation. I like to play cello, and I can earn a good living that way. But speaking of living, I need a place to stay. I just arrived in the city today, and I haven't found a place yet."

Christine and Meg exchanged a look. "There's an empty bunk in the ballet dormitories. You can stay there unless we find a dancer who needs it," Meg said.

"If you just arrived in the city today, where are your things?" Christine asked.

Chris looked down, sorrowful. As sorrowful as she could pretend to be. "I don't have any," she whispered. "The fire started in my room. All my things were burned to a crisp. It's just luck and my father's wit that saved me from being a crisp too."

Both girls were horrified. Chris felt bad for misleading them, but she wasn't lying. She had no other clothes, and a fire _had_ started in her room once. They both chorused something along the lines of "you poor dear!" and they each grabbed an arm.

With Christine on her right and Meg on her left, they set off for the ballet dormitories. Chris turned the conversation from herself to Christine. "So… why did you hold back?"

Christine blushed, embarrassed. "I don't know. I just felt like…" she paused and blinked. "I wanted to save my voice for this evening." She blinked again.

"You are a very bad liar," Chris said, and Christine's blush deepened. "But don't worry about it. I'm not very good either," she lied. "Now, who is the Phantom of the Opera, and why does he think himself entitled to 20,000 francs a month?"

"He's a ghost," Meg said. Besides her mother, Chris realized Meg was the resident expert on the Opera Ghost. Joseph Buquet talked about him a lot, but he didn't know what the Giry family knew. "He haunts the opera, making demands and punishing people when they disobey him. He has many heads he can switch on and off. One is like a head of fire, and another is a death's head. His touch is colder than ice, and his body is that of a corpse."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "That still doesn't answer why he thinks he should get 20,000 francs a month."

Meg shrugged. "Who knows? I think perhaps he just likes to badger the manager," she thought for a moment, "Or I guess its managers now."

Christine, who had been eerily silent, let go of Chris's arm and walked up to the door, smiling. "Here we are! Welcome to the ballet dormitories!" she opened the door with a flourish and Meg let go of Chris's other arm, so Chris could go in first.

She did so, and stopped cold. There, standing by a bed was a slight woman with violent purple bat wings and black hair. She whirled as realized Chris was there, and Chris could see horns growing out of the top her head. They're eyes met, Chris's light blue eyes meeting purple ones, the same color as the female's wings.

The female winked and then disappeared as Christine and Meg walked in behind her. "Chris?" Meg asked.

"Is something wrong?" Christine touched her new friends shoulder lightly, then followed Chris's gaze. "Is that… _luggage_?"

Chris snapped out of her shock and glanced at the bed the woman had been standing by. There were three trunks on it, and a cello case on the floor beside it. "I…" she ran to them. "The trunks have my name on it," she realized as she examined them, finding _Christabelle Carpentier_ stenciled on the lids. She ran her hands over the cello case to realize it was hers. She stood and faced her friends. "I don't understand."

Meg shook her head. "Neither do we." She turned to Christine. "Christine?"

Christine looked down, genuinely sorrowful. "You have a secret admirer. Raoul- the Vicomte," she corrected herself. "He spoke to the managers on your behalf."

"But he only met me a few moments earlier," Chris pointed out, eager to set the girl straight. Christine clearly liked Raoul, and Chris didn't want the girl to think that she was stealing the viscount away. "He didn't have enough time. Few people know my sizes to have clothes made. It's probably a present from my father," she said.

Christine seemed to believe her. "Yes… I suppose so."

Chris grinned. "Good. Because I think the Vicomte should court you, instead of me. You two would make a better couple," she said, mostly because it was what Christine wanted to hear. She had no clue about their compatibility.

Somewhere, she thought she heard teeth grinding. Chris wrinkled her nose and shook her head. It was probably her imagination. "Now, you two probably have a lot of work to do, seeing as you have a performance tonight," she said, shooing them. "I can unpack on my own." The two girls left, smiling and giggling and talking about Raoul. When Chris could no longer hear them, she called to the empty air. "Show yourself." Nothing happened, but Chris thought she heard a female voice grumble.

Chris watched her friend with anticipation. Christine was singing the aria, and everyone who had been at rehearsal waited breathless for the last note, to see if the girl could do it. "Come on, honey," Chris encouraged quietly, watching intently from her place next to Meg. If Meg heard, she didn't say anything.

Smiling slyly, as if Christine could feel everyone's anticipation, she sang that last high note, hitting it exactly right. The crowd was on its feet! Chris herself was jumping up and down in a very unladylike manner. No one seemed to notice, or they didn't care.

When Christine tottered off stage, Chris caught her eyes and saw the young girl looked frightened. Chris started forward, but she instantly saw that she'd never reach the soprano. There were too many people surrounding her. Chris backed out and resolved to talk to the girl later.

She wandered around the opera house, not sure where she was going or what she was going to do. She should practice the music M. Reyer had given her, but she didn't feel like it.

She saw the curious Le Monte approach her, but she didn't feel like talking to him at the moment. She rounded a corner and hid in the shadows, watching silently as he passed.

When he reached her hiding place, he paused momentarily, and Chris was suddenly worried that he would find her and she'd have to make some excuse as to why she was hiding. He looked around, his face carrying a strange emotion she couldn't read. He moved on shortly, but Chris got the curious feeling that he knew where she was.

Chris remained in her dark corner for a moment, thinking, when a lantern behind her suddenly lit, flooding her hiding place with light. It was so unexpected that Chris jumped. When she realized it was just a lantern, Chris leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, her heart beating wildly. What had caused that lantern to light?

The only explanation her mind could find was Erik. Spooked, Chris wandered back to the large area backstage, where she knew there were a ton of people. She sang "Castle on a Cloud" to keep from freaking out.

She found people quickly, and, seeing all the people with admiring faces and flowers, realized she must be outside Christine's dressing room. Deciding to use her elbows, she fought her way through the crowd and let herself in as Mme Giry was coming out. The woman pursed her lips at the sight of her daughter's newest friend, but didn't say anything and allowed Chris to pass.

She found Christine staring a red rose with a black ribbon tied around it. Ignoring the flower, Chris ran up and hugged Christine. "Well done! You were perfect!"

Christine smiled ruefully. "Meg said the same thing."

"There is only one version of the truth, my dear," Chris said. "Now, what scared you?"

Christine frowned. "What?"

Chris put her hands on her hips. "I saw your face as you came off stage. I'm surprised you didn't faint, you looked so scared. What happened?"

Christine broke down and started to cry. "Oh! It felt like my soul didn't belong to me anymore! It belonged to _him!" _Chris put her arms around her friend_._

"Him?"

"My coach," Christine elaborated. "The Angel of Music."

"Your coach is an angel?"

Christine nodded. "Father said that when he died, he would send the Angel of Music to me, and he has! The Angel has been coaching me. Tonight it felt as if my soul was his and not mine."

Chris looked at the girl crying on her shoulder. "You believe the spirit of your father is coaching you." Christine didn't answer, but she didn't have to. It hadn't been a question. Chris gripped her friend's shoulders and levered her up so she could look Christine in the eyes. "Listen to me." Christine looked at her, bleary eyed. Chris realized with a pang of jealous that her new friend was one of those girls that could cry without getting read and blotchy. She shoved those thoughts away. "Listen to me," she said again. "It's not the Angel of Music, stealing your soul that you felt. Do you hear me? Souls cannot be stolen. You have to give it away."

Christine started to blubber again. "B-but I d-did!"

Chris shook her. "No, you didn't. Not to the Angel of Music, at least." Puzzled, Christine looked back at Chris. "You gave your soul to the music itself."

The soprano sniffed. "Isn't that the same thing?"

Chris shook her head. "Your coach is not the embodiment of music. I daresay that music would never allow itself to be embodied by any one thing. It goes against its nature. You opened your soul to the music, and it used you. What do you think happened to me today, at the audition? It's okay to let the music take you over and give you wings. That's what it's supposed to do. Do you understand?" Christine nodded, but she was frowning. Chris laughed. "You are still a bad liar. Don't worry. I didn't understand half of it either. Just remember that it's okay to let the music take over. Just don't let an actual _person_ take your soul. Even if he is an angel." Chris let go over her friend. "Are you okay?"

Christine nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Chris replied with a grin. She turned to leave. "See you."

"Bye."

Chris stopped at the door and turned. "Oh, and Christine? Be careful of your so called angel. Many a con man has preyed on naïve young woman by claiming to be such things." When Christine did not respond, Chris left. She knew that the brunette would not heed her warning. Though, Erik now knew that at least one of Christine's friends was on to him.

Seemingly absentmindedly, Chris twirled a lock of bright red hair around her finger (in such a way so that her hand was at the level of her eyes), humming a nonsense melody.

She was walking past a branch of candles when, suddenly, they all went out. Chris froze, staring at the candles when she felt ice cold hands circle her neck. Erik, for it could only be him, didn't try to choke her, so she forced herself to remain still.

She could feel his breath by her ear, but it wasn't warm. She shivered. "What do you want?" she whispered. She wasn't sure why she was being so quiet.

"Your warnings are not appreciated," he replied, just as quietly. She shivered again, this time not from the cold. She could wait to hear him sing!

"Is that a threat?" she asked lightly.

"Yes," he growled quietly in her ear. He released her and Chris whirled to get a look at him, but she could see nothing.

"I will not be trifled with!" she yelled in what she thought was his general direction. Light appeared behind her, and Chris turned to see Mme Giry holding a single candle.

"Who are you talking to?" she asked.

Chris, confused with all the different emotions she was feeling at the moment, replied truthfully. "The Opera Ghost."

Mme Giry's eyes widened. "You shouldn't anger him! My dear, there have been," she paused, "accidents."

Chris glared at the woman. "I'm sure I can deal with him," she replied stubbornly.

Behind her, the previously extinguished candles flared to life again.

* * *

><p>I probably won't be able to update this again this weekend, but I will try. If it doesn't happen, then expect another chapter next weekend.<p>

Erik:*uses Punjab to try to lasso the tranquilizer gun from Hallower*

*dodges* Hey! No fair! *shoots Erik*

Erik:*drops*

And you thought I wouldn't use it. Thanks again Celestialdome!


	4. Chapter 4

I really should be updating my other story, but that one is a little troublesome, and this one won't leave me alone.

* * *

><p>Le Monte walked into his room slightly drunk, with every intention of collapsing on his bed. He soon found out there was a problem. There was already someone sitting in it.<p>

He blinked a moment before recognizing her. "Well, if it isn't the beauteous and delightful Faye Isle," he said, grinning. "I thought I smelled your Sapphire Hallow stench."

The woman on the bed smiled like a cat playing with a mouse, rustling her violently purple wings. "Really?" she asked, looking flattered. "After five centuries of consorting with the enemy? Mother would be proud." She flashed Le Monte a disconcerting, sugary sweet smile, made all the more disconcerting by her pointed teeth. "Speaking of parents," Faye continued, "how's your Daddy dearest?"

Le Monte's grin slipped a little. It took all his control not to attack her and instead to put his face together again. "The same as ever, thanks ever so much for asking." Wanting to regain some points, he sauntered over to the hallower on his bed. "Here for business or pleasure, love?"

That wiped the smile off Faye's face. "Business," she said very firmly. "Stay away from my girl."

Understanding dawned for Le Monte. "Ah. I never thought you'd claim a mortal, Faye. I thought such practices were illegal in the Sapphire Hallow."

Faye shrugged. "Times change, Liam. I'm one of you Ruby Hallowers now, remember?"

"Siarl."

The hallower frowned. "Excuse me?"

"It's not Liam anymore, it's Siarl."

Faye smiled one of her most unnerving smiles and got up from her seat on his bed. "You'll always be Liam to me," she said, tweaking his nose. And then she was gone, leaving Le Monte to stare at the place she had been, scowling furiously.

* * *

><p>Chris tossed and turned in her new bed, wearing her new nightgown. It was really just a white tent with sleeves, but the fabric had seemed comfortable enough. It wasn't flattering or sexy like the white, lacy attire Christine and Meg chose to sleep in, but Chris thought it would be comfortable.<p>

She'd been wrong. It kept twisting about her, threatening to choke and bind her. Why whoever had sent her those trunks couldn't have packed her regular cotton pajama pants and red tank top, she didn't know. Along with a full wardrobe of period clothing, the purple and black woman had packed much of her 21st century wardrobe too. (Plus some 21st century technology, like her laptop and several DVDs.)

But not her pajamas.

Of course, the more she thought about it, the less it was the nightgown's fault she couldn't sleep. She felt sick with worry about Christine, burning with curiosity over Erik's home, homesick for her own time, and paralyzed by the thought that any changes she made to this story might change something in the future.

And beneath all these, buried as deep as she could get it, was a pull toward Erik. A very dangerous pull should she give into it, but it was very hard to ignore.

And why? Why should she want to see him again? She hadn't really seen him the first time! He would probably kill her. Yes, the hands-on-the-neck message was very clear. I could kill you if I want to, so don't make me want to.

Okay, so she had mooned over him back in the 21st century, but her daydreams and reality are two different things. Her daydreams couldn't kill her.

Despite these thoughts, Chris found herself getting up and slipping on a pair of jeans under her nightgown, then socks, then a pair of sneakers the horned woman packed, and slipped out of the dormitory.

She didn't make it very far when she heard whispering. It was M. Bouquet, talking about the Phantom. Chris shuddered when she remembered his fate in the play and hoped it would be different, knowing it wouldn't be. She hurried past.

When she reached Christine's dressing room, there was no one there. The room showed signs of a search. Chris reasoned that it was probably the Vicomte, breaking in and searching frantically for Christine and not finding her.

She reached the mirror and yanked it open, her mind imagining all the booby traps that would probably be down there. She closed the mirror almost all the way, leaving a crack open for no real reason besides that it made her feel better. Then Chris faced the corridor.

To her immense surprise, it was brightly lit, though the occasional torch on the wall wasn't. The light seemed to reflect from the rocks themselves. It was very creepy. Chris hurried along.

There were several rats along the passage way, and they started to follow her. Chris was creeped out by that too. She searched the pockets of her jeans, but she didn't find any food that they might be smelling. They didn't approach her, just flowed along behind her a few yards back.

Though they creeped her out, Chris was soon grateful for the rats and the light. The light let her see most booby traps, and the rats warned her by squeaking about the rest. She made it to the lake unscathed.

And she stopped. The only boat was on the other side. There was no way to get across. Chris considered swimming but decided not to chance it. The book said there was a siren in the water, someone other than Erik, and even if it was Erik, he was strong enough to drown her.

As Chris searched for something Erik might have to bring the boat back incase he left through a different way and came back with the boat on the other side, the rats started to enter the water.

Ever since they saved her life a couple times, Chris was less creeped out by them and more intrigued. She watched as they swam across the lake and, by sheer force of numbers, pushed the boat over to the other side.

"Thank you," Chris said, as if this was to be expected of the rats. She would really have to reward them with a lot of fruit and cheese.

Chris hopped in the boat and poled herself over. The closer she got to Erik's lair, the dimmer the mysterious light got, and fewer and fewer rats swam along side her. When she finally reached the portcullis that served as Erik's front door, there was no light except what came from the candles inside Erik's home and no rats.

Hoping to find a mechanism that might cause the portcullis to rise, Chris jumped off the boat and onto the portcullis, climbing it like a jungle gym.

While peering into a promising looking dark recess, she heard a noise. Hoping it might be more rats, (she really liked those buggers now) she looked through the square created by the metal of the gate. Chris saw Erik, standing in a frilly white shirt and brown pants, staring at her with his mouth hanging open.

* * *

><p>Don't ask me where the rats came from. They just appeared. Like Le Monte, they are not in my outline.<p>

Okay, so I want your opinion on pairings. Everything is fair game at this point in the story. In the first version it was ChrisxErik, but in the second version, it was ChristinexErik, though Chris was still the main character. All plans for this version may be irrelevant because I didn't factor in Le Monte, and Faye is turning out to have a bigger role than I originally planned too, so... I want your opinions.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own Phantom of the Opera.

Okay, so I haven't updated in a while, but this is a pretty long one. Will you forgive me?

Erik: No.

Erik, I wasn't asking you!

* * *

><p>Chris recovered first. She smiled and waved, like a cheesy, preppy Avon lady. "Hi! How are you? Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies? Thin Mints half price, today only!" Erik did not answer, so Chris dropped the act. "Could you please raise the portcullis? I know Christine is down here."<p>

"What accent is that?" Erik asked. Only after hearing his voice did Chris realize she'd been speaking in English. With her American accent. Damn.

"Let me in and I'll tell you," she said, pouting a little. She doubted it would work (Erik was attracted to brunettes) but maybe Erik would try to kill her, and he would need to open the thingy to do that.

"You aren't from France," Erik said. Chris frowned, but she supposed she shouldn't be surprised that Erik had been listening in on her conversations with Christine.

"You're supposed to be some sort of genius, and it took you that long to figure that out?" Perhaps insulting Erik was not the best thing. "I had to have some plausible excuse."

"Excuse for what?" Erik asked. It occurred to her that this was kind of like an interrogation…

"Open the portcullis thingy, and I'll tell you," Chris said. "I'm getting tired of hanging on it."

Erik seemed to consider her for a moment, and then he pulled a lever. The portcullis rose. Chris looked up to see Erik watching her carefully. She gave him a wink and, with what she hoped was a fabulous display of grace, climbed down to the bottom, and swung under the thing, then climbed back up it as it began to close again. Graceful or not, she did not get wet, and she felt very accomplished.

Her triumph was short lived. No sooner was she hanging on the other side when a Punjab flew at her and looped itself around her neck. Chris had only time to curse bitterly before Erik gave a great yank on the rope and pulled her into the water.

_Don't panic_, Chris thought, and gave her own hard pull on the rope around her neck. A splash told her Erik had fallen in as well. That wasn't her original intention, but it _was_ rather delightful. Using the slack Chris had just given herself, she pulled the rope over her head and kicked to the surface.

A gleam of white caught her eye, and she swam and grabbed it. A mask, Erik's mask. Deciding he might want it back, she surfaced, gulping air.

Erik was waiting for her. Wordlessly, she handed over the mask. "I made it all the way down here without getting a single drop of wetness on my night gown, and now I'm soaked. Figures."

Erik was refitting his mask, a confused look on his face. "Did-"

Chris interrupted him. "Your face is not an issue with me," she said, trying to get her red hair back under control. It just went crazy when it got wet. "Conversation over."

Erik glared at her. "How did you find your way down here?"

"I came through the mirror, dodged the booby traps. I'm smarter than the average bear, you know." Chris decided not to mention the light or the rats. She couldn't help but remember how they had disappeared when she drew close to his lair.

"And how did you know about the mirror?" Erik asked.

Chris eyed him. _Truth or fiction? _"What do you think?" she asked, deciding to put off having to answer.

"I think I should probably kill you, to keep you from telling anyone else, but I would like to know how you found out," Erik said.

Chris grinned. "Oh? In that case, I'm not telling you anything."

"I will kill you either way," Erik said, shrugging. "It will just be slower this way."

Chris chuckled. "First rule of survival: stay alive as long as possible." Chris didn't know anything about fighting or combat or surviving in a hostile world, beyond what she read about in books, but that seemed like a good rule.

"Second rule," Erik said. "Kill any threats to your survival."

Chris blinked. "Good point." She thought a moment, "Third rule, turn enemies into friends whenever possible."

"That's not a rule, just a suggestion," Erik said. "I don't make friends."

Chris pouted. "Why not? Friends are helpful. Besides, I'm sure Mme. Giry is your friend."

Erik bristled. "That is-"

"None of my business, blah, blah, blah," Chris said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm not sure whether I'd rather be your friend or your enemy." She paused and then said, "Now, even though I'm enjoying our little game of water aerobics, but I would like the chance to dry off, so please _move_." With that, she pushed him aside and trudged out of the lake.

When she was on dry land, she sat down and started taking off her sneakers. Splashes told her that Erik was following her.

She didn't look up when two boots appeared in front of her, she was too busy wringing out her socks. "Why aren't you afraid of me?" Erik asked.

Chris looked him up and down, considering her next answer, and then went back to her socks. "Because you're dripping wet, my dear. That, and I'm not afraid of the things I understand."

"You couldn't possibly understand me," Erik said, his voice harsh from anger. It was still lovely though, and Chris found herself jealous.

"Are you certain? You're incredibly smart, but held back by your face, and you resent the world for that. You find solace in your music, and you have a huge crush on one Christine Daae, as much for her exceptional voice as for her pretty face." Chris deliberately left out a bunch of the more complicated stuff. Chris could discuss Erik all day. She didn't consider herself a drooling, rabid phangirl, but sometimes she forgot herself.

"That's not all there is to me," Erik said.

"No, of course not. May I have a towel?" There was no response. Chris sighed and leaned back on her elbows, looking up at him. He was glaring at her with what was probably his best scowl. She bit back what she really wanted to say (_Lets be friends!_ gag) and said instead, "If you keep looking at me like that, your face will freeze that way."

Erik continued to glare.

"Is Christine alright?" Chris asked, returning to the original reason for her visit. (It _wasn't_ simple curiosity, damn it!)

"You think I would harm her?" his voice sounded angry, but not as angry as he really was. It was his eyes that gave him away. Genius that he may be, Chris realized he would be a terrible liar if you could see his face. She assumed that he was unused to hiding his emotions.

Chris, on the other hand, was a very accomplished liar, a skill that allowed her to know when to tell the truth. "I don't think you'd never harm her physically, but you haven't interacted with other people enough to know what emotional harm you're doing." His eyes sparked, and Chris hurried to add "Unintentionally, of course. It's just that Christine doesn't know how to protect herself, physically and emotionally. I don't think she even realizes she _should_ protect herself. She just so innocent."

"And you aren't innocent?" Erik asked, his voice sort of flat.

Chris assessed him. He was less angry now, but he was not happy with her. "Could you please sit down? Looking up at you is making my neck hurt."

He sat, which surprised her. She expected him to protest or something. She supposed his neck was getting tired too. "Thank you," she said. "No, I'm not innocent." Heck, Chris wasn't even a virgin. She'd lost the V-card about six months ago and it had hurt like hell. She hadn't tried it again. Also, the guy had turned out to be a son of a bitch. "I've been kicked while I was down a few times."

For a while neither of them said anything, and Chris got tired of the silence quickly. "Well, what time do you suppose it is?" she asked, switching to French.

Erik blinked. "Excuse me?" he asked in the same language. "Why are we suddenly speaking in French?"

"Because we are in Paris," replied Chris, grinning. "So, what is the time?"

Erik looked about and Chris followed his gaze to find a clock nestled among a few paintings. The clock was the most interesting of the arrangement. The paintings looked to be oils slashed across the canvas in anger. Genius Erik may be, but painter he was not.

"It's about four in the morning," Erik said.

Chris thought for a moment. "Have you eaten anything all day?" Erik looked surprised at the question, and didn't answer. "I'll take that as a no," she said, as she put her wet shoes and socks back on. They squelched as she stood. "Come on," she said as she held a hand to help him up, "I'll make you breakfast."

He looked at her hand for a moment, and then shrugged as if he was thinking to himself, _if I'm going to hell, might as well go all the way._ He grabbed her hand and she helped him up. "I'm not hungry."

"I doubt you're ever hungry," Chris said. "Nonetheless, you are still human, and therefore need food. How do pancakes sound? Where is your kitchen?"

"Unappetizing and that way," Erik pointed toward a door which Chris opened quickly. She didn't take much time to look at the kitchen. Instead, she simply got right to work.

"I'm Chris, by the way. Christabelle Carpentier," she said as she bustled about, searching for various pots and pans.

"My name is Erik," he said.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Erik." She opened his pantry and found that he did have some food in it. The bare essentials, but pancake ingredients were there, thank goodness. She opened his icebox (the kind kept cold by large blocks of ice) and found some milk. She tasted it, just to make sure. It was still fresh.

"You need to go grocery shopping," she said as she mixed the batter. He didn't seem to have any measuring cups, so Chris had guessed.

When Erik didn't comment on her observation about his shopping habits, she looked up. He was gone. "Men," Chris whispered very quietly. She suspected Erik had the ears of a fox.

Chris was a good cook. In no time, she had two plates stacked with golden pancakes. She'd even put butter and jam on them. There was no syrup. She supposed it was too much to ask of Erik. She'd already put too much of a strain on his kitchen. Frankly, she was just surprised he'd had the jam.

"Erik?" she called softly, carrying the plates and some silverware. "Erik, where are you?"

"Here," a voice said from behind her. Chris jumped and nearly dropped the plates, but she recovered quickly. The pancakes survived.

She turned and scowled at him. "Don't frighten a women with food in her hands. Here," she said, shoving a plate in his hands. "Now, let's find a table."

* * *

><p>*sigh* I love pancakes.<p>

Erik: But she can't have them. She's fat, you see.

LeMonte: She's not fat, she's a lovely lass.

Erik, you're a bastard. LeMonte, thank you for the compliment, but that's bull and you know it. You're just trying to suck up to me so you can get the girl. I liked you both better when you were fighting with each other.

*eerie silence from annoying male characters*

Anyway, I hope you like it! Review if you like, but I almost prefer you didn't. There is something liberating about writing for no one but myself. Unless of course you see any glaring errors. Then I would like to know about them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Grocery Shopping**

I do not own Phantom of the Opera.

Erik: And she never will

Shut up, Erik, and enjoy the chapter.

Also, I do not own Rent or any of the music associated with that either.

Mark: And she never will.

Mark? What are _you _doing here?

* * *

><p>Chris ate her pancakes quickly. She was pretty hungry.<p>

She was halfway finished when she noticed Erik wasn't eating. "Eat," she commanded, threatening his personal bubble with her fork.

He gave her an apathetic look. "I'm not hungry."

Chris stuck her tongue out at him. "Yeah, I'll bet you never are. Just try a bite. Have you ever had pancakes before? Aren't you just a little curious?" He continued to stare apathetically at her. "Please?" she begged. Erik still didn't budge. "Fine," Chris said, throwing up her hands.

She stood, grabbed her plate, and left Erik sitting at the table. She finished her pancakes in the kitchen and started cleaning up the cooking mess. "So, how is Christine?" she asked the empty air.

"She's fine," Erik replied. "How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't for sure. It was just a guess." She turned around and grinned impishly at him, "I had the feeling you wouldn't leave me alone and unsupervised in your house for any amount of time."

Erik frowned but didn't comment further. Chris continued washing the dishes. She hummed as she went. The humming eventually became words. _"Live in my house, I'll be your shelter. Just pay me back with one thousand kisses. Be my lover and I'll cover you._

"_Open your door; I'll be your tenant. Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet. But sweet kisses I've got to spare, and I'll be there and I'll cover you!_

_"I think they meant it, when they said you can't buy love. Now I know you can rent it. In a lease you are my love. All my life, all my life._

"_I long to discover something as true as this is, yeah._

"_So with a thousand sweet kisses, I'll cover you!_

"_With a thousand sweet kisses, I'll cover you!_

"_With a thousand sweet kisses, I'll cover you!_

"_With a thousand sweet kisses, when your heart has expired!_

"_Oh lover! I'll cover you, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh lover, I'll cover you!_

"_Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, Five hundred twenty one thousand seasons of love!"_

When she finished, she turned around to find Erik staring at her. "What was _that_?" His tone made it clear he did not appreciate her music.

"Sorry my voice is not to your high standards, monsieur," she said, giving her hair an irritated flip.

Erik shook his head. "No, no, no, it's not the quality of your voice; it's the quality of the music you choose to produce with it."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or an insult. But it doesn't matter either way. What else am I supposed to sing?"

Erik gave her an annoyed look. "Well, we are in an opera house."

"So?" Chris asked. "I'm an _alto_, Erik. Alto doesn't exist in opera."

Erik continued to give that look. "And women do not play in the orchestra pit."

"This is different."

"How so?"

"This isn't about me being a soldier against male chauvinism, Erik!" Chris said. "This is about what is and isn't possible!" Erik winced and put a finger to his lips, glancing in what Chris supposed was the general direction of Christine's room. She sighed and continued washing the dishes.

A moment later, Chris realized she was washing her plate twice. What? She thought she'd put it away. She looked in the cupboard and sure enough there was a newly clean plate in it. So whose plate was- oh! Chris looked at the plate she was holding and smiled. So he _was_ hungry.

After Chris had finished cleaning, she left Erik to his Christine. Erik didn't see her after their little argument, and he had searched his house from top to bottom making sure she wasn't lurking about. It appeared she had left without so much as saying goodbye. Well, good bye to bad rubbish, Erik thought. He hoped she would never come back. However, the small amount of money that was missing from his stash would be sorely missed.

"Why are you buying groceries anyway?" Le Monte asked his short companion.

"Because I want to," Chris answered. "Why did you come with me anyway?"

"Because I want to," Le Monte fired back.

"Touché," she muttered as she browsed the grocery. Le Monte's questions were annoying, but he did have his uses. Those uses being namely showing her the very best places to buy the things she needed.

"Seriously though," he said as he picked up a head of lettuce from her basket, "Why? I mean, you eat with the ballet rats in the dormitories, right? Your food comes from the opera house, out of your salary."

"And a measly salary it is too. I'll bet you make twice as much," she said, poking him in the chest and deliberately changing the subject.

"I probably do, but that, my dear, is because I am first chair and you are new," he said, a glint in his eye. His expression made Chris smile, even though she should be annoyed with him. "By the way, dearest Christabelle, I know what you are doing."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow, trying to seem nonchalant. He knew? About Erik?

He smirked. "You deliberately changed the subject back there. I'm going to let it go, but I want you to know that I know, okay?" Chris gave him a look she borrowed from Erik in answer. He laughed. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

"Perhaps you shouldn't have," Chris suggested, grabbing her lettuce back from him and returning it to her basket.

He grinned puckishly at her. "Well, my dear Christabelle, the only _other_ interpretation I would consider was a vow of undying loyalty and devotion to my esteemed self."

"What in the world could possibly give you that impression?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "And don't call me that."

"What?" Le Monte asked, all innocence. "My dear?"

"No, Christabelle."

"Why?" he asked. "It's your name, isn't it?"

She stopped shopping and faced him, hands on her hips. "I prefer Chris."

He grinned, laughter sparking in his eyes. "Chris could be a boy's name. I think you need reminders that you're a girl."

"Really?" she asked, an eyebrow raised. She shifted her posture so that her shoulders were back, pushing out her chest, and one hip was cocked. She took one step closer, so there was only an inch separating them. In one swift motion, she wrapped a hand around his neck and brought his head down to her level. Her lips lightly brushed his ear as she whispered softly, "You think I need reminders?"

Chris then released him and turned around swiftly, continuing her shopping as if nothing happened.

Meanwhile, a stranger with violent purple eyes looked on, uncertain how she felt about the situation.

That night, Chris returned to Erik's lair, again accompanied by the light and the rats. She carried with her the groceries she'd picked up that day, and she fed the rats as she walked down the twisting labyrinth to Erik's house, whistling.

Erik was waiting for her at the shore of the lake, with the boat. As usual, the rats and the light had dissipated long before Erik could see them. "You were expecting me?" Chris asked as she got into the boat. Erik only nodded.

"You stole from me," Erik said when they were under the portcullis and officially in his house.

"How is Christine?" she asked.

"Fine. Now, you stole from me. I should probably kill you now."

She raised an eyebrow. "Then why don't you? Look, I didn't steal from you. I just used the money so I could run an errand for you." She walked to the kitchen, aware Erik was following her. "I bought you groceries. It was the least I could do for emptying out your kitchen last night."

"You shouldn't have," Erik said in a deadpan that made Chris laugh.

"Well, I did," she said, smiling at him. "Don't let them go to waste." Erik didn't answer her.

After Chris finished putting away the groceries, she turned back to Erik, who hadn't moved from his spot in the kitchen doorway the entire time. "So, is there anything else?"

"Why did you do this?" Erik asked. This must have been bothering him.

"Because it needed to be done," she replied. "You don't look like you get enough to eat."

"I'm not hungry," he said.

She sighed. "At the very least, Christine needs to eat."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and Chris could see the wheels of his mind turning. _Uh oh_, she thought. "You don't really know Christine," he said. He looked like he was trying to be accusing but he wasn't really managing it.

"Yes I do, enough to be her friend. She's a sweet girl who wouldn't harm a fly if it bit her. She loves music and singing and misses her father," she said. "Christine is a good person."

"And I'm not," Erik said as if he was finishing her sentence, glaring at her.

She shook her head, disagreeing. "Only if you don't want to be."

Erik stared at her for a moment and Chris held his gaze. His eyes were completely unique, an intoxicating shade of amber, and she soon realized she was trapped in his gaze, like a bird caught in the eyes of snake. She thought about blinking or looking away, but she found she didn't want to.

"Who are you?" Erik asked her. The anger in his voice should have shaken her out of her trance, but Chris found herself falling deeper. His voice was so beautiful, rich like melted chocolate.

"Christabelle Carpentier," she said without meaning to.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Twenty first century America," she again answered without meaning to. Her own truthfulness stunned her, and she blinked. The connection was broken and Chris was herself again, albeit dizzy and a little out of sorts. "I'm going to fall," she whispered as her knees gave out.

Erik caught her with one arm. How did he get over here so fast? She'd thought he was by the door… Chris shook her head and blinked a lot. _I am_ not _going to faint, _she thought over and over again, taking several deep breaths.

When the world stopped spinning she used Erik as a hand hold to get back on her own two feet. Then she walked over to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. "What did you do?" she asked, trying to sound calm and collected.

"You're from the future?" he asked. She looked up at him, careful not to look in his eyes again. She gave him a curt nod. "But… how?"

Feeling more like herself every second, Chris flipped her hair over her shoulder. "To hell if I know. Now, what did you do to me?"

Erik shrugged. "Simple hypnosis. If you had not wrenched yourself out of it and just waited until _I_ woke you, you would have had a better experience."

"Would I have remembered it?" she asked, accusing.

"Not really," he admitted. "You're from the _future_? What year?"

"It was 2009 when I left, and no I'm not telling you more than that. In fact, I'm leaving," Chris said, pushing past him and out of the kitchen.

"How do you speak French so well if you're from America?" Erik asked, following her.

"My father moved from France to America when I was a baby," she answered. "Goodbye Erik." He asked her many more questions, but she refused to answer. He finally left her alone when she got to the boat. As she poled herself back across the lake, she could hear him started to compose.

It was lovely, but Chris didn't stop to listen. Her light and rats returned to her, and she quickly navigated the traps system, stepped out of the mirror, walked out of the dressing room and smacked into Raoul de Chagny.

Erik was composing, but he couldn't keep his mind on the task. He was puzzling over what he had just learned. A girl from the future? Impossible, but no one could lie when he had put them in a trance.

He knew it was more likely that she was faking the trance than that she was from the future, but Erik also knew she hadn't been faking. He'd _felt_ her go under, just as he'd felt hundreds of others go into a trance before her. Also, logically, if she had been faking she would have just pretended to go along with it, instead of suddenly and violently breaking out the way she had.

And that was another thing. No one had ever, _ever_, broken his hypnosis before. No one, and Erik had been doing this since he was a young boy with his mother. He couldn't understand _how _she could have broken through.

Erik stopped playing and sat for a moment. He was rather hungry and very tired. It must have been that. It was a mistake on his part, trying to hypnotize someone in this state. Erik put aside thoughts of "what if" and went to go sleep in his coffin. Next time, if there was a next time, she would not escape.

* * *

><p>Well, did you like? I absolutely <em>loved <em>writing this one. Virtual cupcakes for everyone! Whether you review or not, I don't care. Enjoy!

I love you all! Enjoy the day and smile! It's a beautiful day! *does cartwheels* Whee!

Erik and Le Monte: *stare*


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Erik: *smirk*

Le Monte: *pout*

Shut UP, both of you!

Both: But we didn't say anything!

* * *

><p>Chris backpedaled so fast she tripped on her skirts and fell on her butt. Raoul stared down at her for a moment, and then offered his hand. She was tempted to refuse, but she didn't want him to think about her anymore than necessary. As he pulled her up, she dusted off her skirts. "Thank you. I apologize, I should have been paying more attention."<p>

"You're welcome, but it was my fault entirely. I should be the one apologizing," he said. Raoul's manners were impeccable, but he seemed very distracted. "What were you doing in there, anyway?"

"Sitting, missing Christine," she lied. "Worrying about her, hoping she'll be back soon." At the mention of Christine, Raoul became distracted again, and gazed past her into the dressing room. When he neither moved nor said anything, Chris continued, "There is little else to do." After the sensation Christine had caused at her big debut, Carlotta had since refused to return to the Opera Populaire, and Christine had disappeared. Without their lead soprano's, the managers had been forced to postpone preparations for the next production, whatever it was.

"That is changing. The managers have decided to began preparations for Il Muto with or without a lead," he said, then he stepped out of her way. "You will have plenty of things to do soon,"

Chris smiled gently as she walked past him, "I'm sure she's okay." He did not reply.

As soon as Chris was sure she was outside his hearing, she said, "Stupid fop." What did he do to deserve his station in life? Get born! She didn't mind Raoul for taking Christine away from Erik, but she hated that he was rich because he had the right parents. Chris was raised an American, she didn't like the aristocracy.

Really though, she didn't mind Raoul too much. His brother Philippe was far more arrogant, attempting to woo Meg while tumbling La Sorelli. Raoul was a nice boy (emphasis on the _boy_) who was only slightly less naive than Christine.

Then she remembered something, and abruptly switched directions. Raoul had said they were starting Il Muto. She headed toward the orchestra pit.

M. Reyer was devoted to his job. He often stayed late hours in the theater, looking over music, making notes about that days rehearsal, checking costumes and set pieces. He really tried his very hardest to make sure things ran smoothly. He professed to hate the Opera Ghost for messing things up, but Chris knew otherwise.

The conductor knew Erik would never do anything to screw up a real performance, not unless he was really, really angry. And if the Opera Ghost was _that_ angry, the show probably shouldn't be happening anyway. Very few people knew it, but M Reyer agreed with most of the Ghost's demands. He considered the Ghost very astute in the ways of stagecraft and music, unlike the managers. He had said that he respected the Opera Ghost's ability to make inexperienced managers _listen_.

Chris wasn't supposed to know any of this, though. She'd been eavesdropping on Le Monte and Reyer this morning before her shopping trip.

When she got to the stage, she was disappointed to find it empty. Apparently M Reyer had gone home at a reasonable hour for once. She turned to go when a voice called, "Looking for me?"

She turned to see Le Monte standing there. He was still wearing the clothes he had on while they were shopping, but his hair was messed up and the top button of his shirt was undone. In the shadows of the stage, he looked mysterious, sexy. Remembering what she'd done the last time she saw him, Chris couldn't help but blush. "No. I was actually looking for M Reyer," she said.

"Why?" Le Monte's tone was teasing. Chris didn't get the joke.

"A little birdie told me we would began preparations for Il Muto tomorrow," she replied.

He chuckled. "A well informed bird, to be sure. Does it have strawberry scented plumage, perchance?"

She frowned, confused. "What? No. I mean… I don't think so." She stopped and reassembled her thoughts. "I've never been close enough to smell his… plumage."

"It's a running joke, my dear. Several of the ballet rats were imagining what Raoul de Chagny's hair smelled like. One of them mentioned strawberries within a stagehand's hearing, and it just took. It's a little something we all chuckle behind his back."

She nodded. "Ah. Does it really smell of strawberries?"

Le Monte started in surprise. "You're asking _me_? How on Earth am _I _supposed to know?"

She laughed. "By using your feminine wiles," she said with a wink. With a short, "Goodnight, Monsieur Le Monte," Chris turned and headed back to her little bed in the ballet dormitories.

* * *

><p>Sorry it's so short, but Chris won that little encounter with Le Monte fairly quickly. She always wins, have you noticed that?<p>

Le Monte: I'm letting her.

Erik: No you're not!

R&R does not stand for Rest and Relaxation.

R&R!


End file.
